another side of this.
that shapes it's seasons
stacked as lemons, curious and round.
no sound from fire
dripping from the curlew to the bronze.
Spring has sprung eternal
through the panic of a prose
where letters, each in uniform
march serene, in tandem
with their horses harnessed
evergreen; as heavy as a sin;
under covers of habitual unease
with noses each as long as time is bone.
through the many moods of light's unchartered ground
each with spines more hollow than a vowel
sleeping with a crucifix
each stone that once dared mortal wounds
a more approachable reprieve
now speak only in whisper
through the bandaged sound of screams;
no more another side such as it is.
I have twisted one too many times
inside the belly of your fig;